


Wardrobe

by uduna



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clothing, M/M, Reddit fiction exchange, Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 10:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13362993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uduna/pseuds/uduna
Summary: The Inquisitor CANNOT wander around like a Dalish hobo any longer.  Dorian and Vivienne work their magic.  Dorian will take all the credit, of course.





	Wardrobe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skullys_machete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullys_machete/gifts).



> This fic was written for the delightful u/scullys_machete from the r/dragonage fic giveaway on Reddit. Written to fit their Inquisitor Sethanin Lavellan.

 

**Wardrobe**

 

Cassandra was grinding her teeth, again.  It had become a bad habit, and it was early in the morning for it.  She had escaped to what should have been the predictable rhythms of the smithy;  instead the fracas of stupidity had followed her even here. 

‘Darling, _really_ , it must be more delicate.  Think of the fine scrollwork in the margins of the Chant, not the stabbing pencil jots arranging your latest tryst.  The basest smith in Lac d'Argent does this multiple times a day; surely you can manage a few in the course of a week.’

The smith being addressed thus was from southern Ferelden, somewhere approaching the Korcari Wilds.   Cassandra happened to know that his family had fled there during the occupation to get as far away from the border with Orlais as they could.  She hadn’t asked why.  She wasn’t the only one grinding their teeth. 

‘Your colleagues will no doubt appreciate the fineness of the new work – a step above your usual squarish style.  One must move beyond squares at some point, I’m sure you agree.’    

This was all over hinges.  _Hinges_!  The smith was skilled and patient;  he didn’t deserve this outrage. 

‘Remember, my dear, this is for the Inquisitor – by far the most important person you’ll ever encounter.  Do make an effort.’ 

Vivienne swanned out, and once safely out of hearing smith flung a hammer across the room.   It made a dissatisfying clink.  Cassandra gave him a sympathetic look.  ‘It seems very important to her for some reason.’ 

‘A fucking wardrobe,’ he growled.  ‘Nothing wrong with my hinges, is there – but no, she’s got to have bloody Orlesian hinges or it’s not bloody good enough.’ 

‘She can be a trying person,’ Cassandra agreed carefully. 

‘ _Trying_? Bollocks.  She knows what she’s doing.  She has to pick and pick and _pick_ so she can feel superior.’ 

‘Why a wardrobe?  What is going on?’

‘The fucking Fade should I know?’ he snarled as he fetched his mistreated hammer.  Cassandra gave up and left in pursuit of answers.  She was a Seeker, after all.  

 

***

‘Oh Creators no.’  A swish. 

‘Catch him!’ Dorian hissed, too late. 

The library balustrades were completely hidden under layers of cloth.  _Excellent_ cloth, as Dorian had ensured, carefully curated.  The effect was quite pleasing, really, with the swathes draping down elegantly, tasteful slashes of colour undulating gently in contrast to the garish carnival of Solas’s baffling frescoes. 

‘There’s velvet!’ he called to no avail. 

When Vivienne swept in later, she scanned the space with a broad, languorous look.  ‘The principle actor is absent still, I see,’ she said. 

‘Our pretty sparrow is spooked by the attention,’ Dorian agreed. 

‘One can hardly do a fitting without the bird in question,’ she began, but Dorian waved it off. 

‘Yes yes yes,’ he said.  ‘It’s all in hand.  Besides – clearly _I_ am the principle actor.’ 

‘Of course, my dear,’ Vivienne purred.  She arched her neck.  It gave the impression of nodding the head without actually doing so.  A neat trick, Dorian had to concede.  He wouldn’t have been able to pull it off.

‘There’s wine,’ he offered.  ‘I vetted it myself,’ he added when she hesitated.  ‘It’s not the uric mash the steward insists on inflicting upon us at table.’  She extended a hand and he graced it with a goblet. 

‘Now.  Where were we?’

 

***

Cassandra had perceived that something was brewing in Skyhold for a few weeks now, but hadn’t thought it important enough to chase down.  Now she ran through names as she walked across the courtyard.  _Not_ Varric.  He would gloat and lie and she’d be no better off.   Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen were supposed to be in the War Room with the Inquisitor, so they were out.  Not Sera, because honestly.  She wasn’t speaking to Rainier, and Cole seldom made sense. 

‘Problem, Seeker?’  The Iron Bull appeared in her line of vision, great, wide horns framing the view when she looked up at him. 

She frowned.  Bull probably _would_ know.

And he was already ahead of her.  ‘Try the library,’ he said. 

She snorted.  ‘I have not even – ’

‘Just sayin’,’ he interrupted, and ambled away.  She narrowed her eyes after him, but turned her feet toward the Great Hall.   

 

***

‘ _No!_   I can’t stand it!  The white would wash out the brightness of his hair.  Unacceptable.’

‘It would _match_ , darling, that’s the point.’ 

‘No, it would not.  And anyway, _I_ thought the point was to encourage him _not_ to blend in.’

Dorian drew up a length of blue cloth; the rich silk caught the light with a shimmer.  How to describe the colour?  Azure?  Sapphire?

Vivienne clicked her tongue.  ‘But it must be tasteful, darling.  One must _stand_ out, not _stick_ out.  And that cornflower silk would clash with his eyes.’  She slipped it out of his fingers and replaced it with a subtler hue.  ‘Bleu d’Orlais would serve much better.’ 

The new colour would suit Sethanin to the ground.  He shouldn’t resent that she was right.  He shouldn’t need to be told this – he was _good_ at this.  He’d been the best-dressed man in Tevinter since he was fourteen.  He’d attended the most important banquets, balls, soirées, and galas in Minrathous since he could talk, and _not once_ had he needed assistance in choosing his outfit.  He was the definition of fashionable;  he always had been.  He stared down at the cloth in silence, jaw clenching, until Vivienne dropped a hand over his own. 

‘It’s because it matters,’ she said, voice uncharacteristically tender.  ‘I had a dreadful time with Bastien as well.’ 

He released his jaw and forced a smile.  ‘Well, that’s something,’ he said.  ‘This blue is perfect.’ 

 

***

When Cassandra’s head poked up from the stairwell a quarter-hour later, Dorian was alone in the library and he was chipper again.  ‘Ah, Seeker!’ he smirked.  ‘Finally given in to your curiosity?’ 

She stamped up the last steps.  ‘Tell me what’s going on, Dorian.  The smith – Andraste preserve me.’ 

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he preened. 

She reached out a hand.  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she admitted,  ‘and expensive,’ she added when she got a handful of fabric.  She shot him a look.  ‘Does the Inquisitor know you’re doing this?’ 

He gave a grim smile.  ‘Oh yes.  That’s why he’s not here.’  He turned back to his work. 

‘So how will you – ’

‘ _Vishante kaffas!_  It is _in hand_.  I’ve come to accept that I’m the only person around here who has any imagination at all, but at times it is a burden.’

He was separating the fabrics into sections as he spoke – over his shoulder, like she was an afterthought, or not important enough to pay full attention to.  It was annoying, as she was sure it was calculated to be, but also… what?

 _Touching_ , she realised.  He was hiding behind his blitheness and sharp tongue, his back was turned to her, so she wouldn’t see how much he was fussing.  He didn’t want her to see his face.  Cassandra was well trained in her vocation: she could read Dorian like a public declaration.  _He really loves Sethanin that much_.  She hid her smile, scowled instead, let him have his diversion. 

‘There is no need to be offensive,’ she said, doing her best to look like she was bristling. 

‘If I weren’t constantly getting distracted, I wouldn’t have to be.’ 

‘I don’t mean to distract you.  Perhaps I can help.  There,’ she pointed.  ‘That is a good colour.  Try that one.’ 

He made a great show of tipping his head back and clutching a hand to his forehead.  ‘Cornflower blue?  Are you mad?’

 

***

Sethanin wasn’t a fool.  He knew he was being played, knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid it forever, knew his lover and friends were helping him.  It didn’t mean he had to like it. 

‘Actually,’ he said testily – _again_ – ‘Dalish are quite comfortable without shoes.’  How many times must he explain this to _shemlen_? 

Leliana made a fetching moue and gracefully, slyly, touched his arm.  ‘Oh, but I _adore_ shoes.  And I have almost no one to talk to about them here.  So indulge me?  Please?  And I know that Dalish don’t always go barefoot.  I can help you.  One can’t mingle with nobility with bad shoes, you see.  In Orlais they will judge you harshly for any fashion that is not _à la mode_.  I have had some sent to Skyhold to try on.  It will be fun!’ 

Oh yes, _fun_.  This could not possibly be further from the truth, and she had to know it.  In all his years observing humans and their strange ways, he never thought the most trying cultural obstacle he would hit would be _clothing_.   He understood how the likes of Vivienne and Dorian used their image to political advantage;  Vivienne had made it clear she thought his disregard for it all was simply incomprehensible.  At least _she’d_ stopped harassing him about it.  Why should he have to explain – though he did it, Creators knew he’d done his best – that Dalish dressed to blend in with their surroundings?  Hunters needed to be inconspicuous.  Was this hard to grasp?  That clothing had to be sturdy and long-lasting and practical because his people couldn’t waste anything?  Did he need to employ the Crier?  Every time Vivienne made a sidelong comment, he had to grind his teeth and remind himself that for _shemlen_ , this was important.  To be seen, and then to be seen to be seen, was for some of them the only thing they lived for.  Power had to be bright and visible and acknowledged. 

It wasn’t the Dalish way.  It wasn’t _his_ way, and he resented that no one seemed to respect this.  ‘Quiet Sethanin,’ _Hahren_ used to say.  ‘Observant.  Unseen.  _Da’tarlinydha_ – _Little Owl_.  Good servants of Falon'Din.’  On his return trips to the aravels, _Hahren_ would welcome him with a bearhug and then trace his vallaslin with a rough finger.  ‘ _Da’tarlinydha_ ,’ he would say with a smile.  ‘What have you learned this time?’

Sethanin understood that his new friends and colleagues meant well.  He was grateful that they cared, but every time the subject was brought up he felt increasingly _foreign_.  He thought of purses and sows’ ears.  He was starting to feel kinship with Iron Bull of all people, and wasn’t _that_ just too much? 

This afternoon, though, he knew he’d finally been routed.  If they were siccing Leliana on him, he was doomed.  He tried to look …well, not happy, he couldn’t manage that.  Quiescent, at least.  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said weakly.  ‘Let’s take a look.’ 

 

***

The Spymaster and the Inquisitor slipped up the stairs to his quarters. 

‘Our _petit_ _oiseau_ has landed!’ Leliana announced. 

Dorian stood in the centre of the room, a light wooden framework beside him sporting his final choices.  He’d weeded the collection to a precious, perfect few.  He caught Sethanin’s pained look and tucked his anxiety behind a veil of smugness.  Sethanin usually loved his capacity for bravado; today he wasn’t feeling it.  ‘Finally!’ Dorian cried.  ‘I thought I might never see you again.’   

Sethanin sighed silently.  ‘Hello Dorian,’ he said.  ‘I’m sorry I’ve played truant.’ 

‘Not at all,’ Dorian said cheerily.  ‘You’re here now.’  He looked at him more keenly.  ‘This won’t actually hurt, you know.’ 

‘It will be fun!’ Leliana chirped.  She was bright and vivacious – Sethanin had never seen her like this. 

Behind them, servants could be heard hauling boxes up the stairs.  _Day of reckoning_ , Sethanin thought glumly.  For Dorian’s sake he would try to be a good sport about it, but truly he wished he could turn into an actual owl and fly right out the window. 

 

***

It took hours; Sethanin was stoic.  Mage and Spymaster gushed over one colour, sniped over another, debated current fashions like it was the key to the universe.  Measurements, poses, and very little contribution from the model in question:  such was his day.   As the afternoon wore on into evening, Dorian’s façade cracked a little:  he shot worried glances at him when he thought he wasn’t looking. 

Finally, the ordeal ended.  Everything – fabric, papers with his every particular jotted down, the damn shoes – was sent off to Creators-knew-where in the depths of the fortress, and Sethanin slumped in relief and fatigue.  ‘I don’t even want to eat,’ he groaned.  ‘I just want to rest.  Now.  Goodnight.’ 

They let him be.  Dorian looked like he wanted to stay, but thought better of it.  He darted in and kissed the elf’s cheek.  ‘Sleep well,’ he murmured.  ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ 

Sethanin collapsed into bed.  He dreamt of flying. 

 

***

They were quick, the tailors who apparently lived in his castle, Sethanin had to give them that.   It was only a couple of days before he was forced to face the music.  He had been out for the morning with Josephine, meeting some visiting guild leaders from Nevarra.  He had no idea why they had to meet outside in the freezing, blustery courtyard, but apparently it was _tradition_. 

Once the idiotic formalities were finished, he hurried to the Hall, where he usurped Varric’s spot by the fire and tried desperately to get some feeling back in his fingers.  That was where Dorian found him.  A pair of strong arms encircled his waist from behind.  ‘Come upstairs,’ a voice hummed into his ear. 

Now _that_ was how an elf should warm up.  He happily followed Dorian up to the Inquisitor quarters, but once in the room he was struck with dismay.  ‘Oh,’ he said stupidly. 

A new wardrobe stood next to the regular one.  It didn’t match its brother; rather, it gave the impression of sneering down at it.  The lines were slightly curved rather than straight, ending in exaggerated, pointed corners, it was brightly varnished, and the hinges resembled slender vines rather than…well, hinges.  Inside its ostentatious maw would no doubt be his shiny new image. 

He wanted to fly away.

Dorian slipped a hand into his.  ‘Dance with me,’ he said.  He guided them into a light step together, the mage twirling him across the space and back again in a swinging rhythm.  _How does he do this?_   Sethanin could hear the music, could feel the rhythm in his bones, and Dorian led him through the dance like it was a separate being surrounding and shepherding them – but there _was_ no music, no rhythm, just the man’s blazing force of personality.  Clever Dorian.  Sethanin relaxed into him and swung with the steps, felt his panic gradually subside.  He was so, so grateful for him.  He would, he thought fearfully, follow this human to the ends of the earth if he asked.  By the time he was led to the space next to the new wardrobe, he was warmer, more at ease, and actually – in spite of himself – curious what his beloved had created for him. 

‘You win,’ he said, throwing up his hands.  ‘Let me see what you’ve come up with.’ 

Dorian squeezed his elbow, grinned into his moustache.  ‘Only a few things,’ he said.  He opened the wardrobe door and Sethanin glimpsed a handful of outfits.   ‘If you approve of these, we’ll make more.’  Sethanin groaned.  ‘ _Amatus_ ,’ Dorian chided.

‘ _Fenedhis_ ,’ Sethanin muttered, but obligingly stripped. 

The clothes _were_ rather sharp, if he were being honest.  On some other people they would have looked grand and appropriate – but for him?   The colours were rich, jewel-like:  dark emerald, midnight, dim rust, something nearly golden, a very pleasing blue (‘Goes with your eyes,’ Dorian winked), and finally a pearlescent grey which, when he glanced in the mirror, made his hair look nearly luminous.  They were tasteful but each one had some extravagance – excess fabric, flashes of extra colour, buttons and buckles of precious metal which jingled.  Dorian made a game of posing him in front of the mirror in each one.  They all fit magnificently.   He looked like a _shemlen_ king. 

‘You don’t like them,’ Dorian said. 

Sethanin fingered the buttons on his coat.  ‘It’s not that.  It’s just…I’m usually less…noticeable,’ he said. 

‘That’s the problem.’

‘It’s not a _problem_.’  He bridled.  ‘This stuff is all right for _you_ , Dorian.  This is your world, not mine.  You do all this so effortlessly – all the parties and clothes.  It’s different for me.’  He raised his hand to Dorian’s face, cupped his jaw, summoned his courage.   ‘You’re so _beautiful_ ,’ he murmured.  ‘Like a perfect, gleaming gem.’  His eyes slid away.  ‘I feel like a fraud.’ 

‘Oh, _Amatus_.’

‘I can deal with the names,’ Sethanin said.  ‘Knife-ear.  Savage.  All that.  I’ve heard that stuff from _shemlen_ all my life.  But this feels like – like – ’ he stopped, flailed his hands like he was trying to catch words.  ‘This isn’t me.   It’s like I have to pretend to be someone else.’ 

‘Yes,’ Dorian said gently, ‘you do.’  Sethanin shot him a surprised look.  ‘That’s the _point_.  This – ’ he turned him back toward the mirror so he could show him off to himself ‘ – lets you play the part of Inquisitor without having to work to be convincing every second.  It does half the work for you.  Look at yourself.  Do you _look_ like someone easy to scoff at?’ 

Sethanin balked.  ‘Well….no.’  He looked very much like he had underlings who would take care of any scoffing jibes on his behalf – which, he supposed, was true now.  ‘I never thought of that,’ he admitted.

‘Well I did.  Aren’t I useful?’ 

Sethanin adjusted the jacket and squared his shoulders.  In the mirror, _The Inquisitor_ did the same, looking like they knew what they were doing.  Perhaps Dorian and Vivienne did have a point – for there was no doubt that Vivienne was involved in this somewhere. 

‘There’s also this,’ Dorian said shyly.  ‘I promise it’s the last thing.’  He drew out the new item, and Sethanin froze. 

Rich, mossy green.  Flat, nut-brown leather.  Metal fastenings in muted steel.  Nothing sparkly.  No useless bright buckles.  No baubles.  No _noise_.  Nothing in excess anywhere.  It was instead a thoroughly sensible set of quite splendid light armour. 

Dorian held it out to him, and he reached a hand to touch it.  On closer inspection, the flash and the sparkle were all in the subtle details.  The colours spoke of the dim depths of the forests, and the material was exquisite.  He didn’t know what kind of leather it was, but it was strong and flexible and felt like butter against his fingers.  There were two kinds of green, he saw now:  they’d been shaped into contrasting whorls which gave the impression of shadows, like the play of light under the canopy.  Skilfully etched into the leather over the whole set were slender forms reminiscent of _vallaslin_. 

‘It should fit you like a glove,’ Dorian said.  ‘If it doesn’t, I shall light someone on fire.’ 

‘ _Pockets_ ,’ Sethanin breathed.  ‘Dorian, look at them all!’  He scrabbled at his jacket.  ‘I must try it on.  Right now.  Oh _damn_ these buttons.’ 

‘Stop! Stop!’ Dorian cried.  He set the armour aside and grasped his lover’s wrists, leaned in.  ‘Not that I don’t want to watch you tear off your clothes in front of me, but I see,’ he growled, heat in his eye, ‘that I must teach you how to _un_ dress as well.’ 

Sethanin felt a blush spread up to the tips of his ears.  ‘Well, when you put it like that…’ 

Dorian smirked and kissed an eyelid as one button slipped open under his fingers.  Another kiss on the other eye, and another button.  Another on the bridge of his nose, on his brow…. He kept the kisses chaste – _ish_ – until he reached the final one, then stepped back.  ‘Let me see the very dull armour,’ he demanded, voice betraying him only a little, ‘and if I don’t have to set someone on fire, perhaps I’ll set my fires on _you_.’

It _did_ fit like a glove, and Dorian kept his word.   

 

***

‘Dorian?’

‘Mmmmm?’

‘What does _petty wazzoh_ mean?’ 

Dorian laughed, his smile lighting up his eyes.  He snuggled further under the covers and tightened his arms around his darling, kissed him on the temple.  ‘That’s Leliana when she’s happy – she regresses into Orlesian, poor thing.  It means _little_ _bird_.’ 

Sethanin blinked at that.  He gazed up at the statues of owls lining the balcony.  _What did you learn today, Da’tarlinydha?_  Perhaps he belonged here after all. 

 

*****

Next evening, in a warm corner of the Great Hall, Vivienne raise her goblet.  ‘To _success_ , my dear.’  Dorian raised his in return.  Cassandra rolled her eyes but joined in.

Dimly, she could just make out muffled thumps and shouts from somewhere below.  She knit her brows, unable to place it.  ‘What is that noise?’

‘The steward, of course.’ 

‘Darling,’ Vivienne beamed as Cassandra dashed to the undercroft door, ‘you’re an _angel_.’ 

 

 


End file.
